


Self-similarity

by ThirstyForRed



Series: speedruning evolution [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: :|, Character Death In Dream, Dreams and Nightmares, M/M, Prophetic Dreams, White Frost (The Witcher), and want, but im still tagging it like that bc i can, fractals, gods i wish it was like a single tag, hubert is kinda important here but not the focus, i know nothing about math btw i just think patterns in frost are neat, it's canon! we know it's the same person!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:40:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26396542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirstyForRed/pseuds/ThirstyForRed
Summary: Alvin dreams for the first time about his death.He's five at the time, and until the very end, he won't fully grasp what that means. What are the signs of inevitable.
Relationships: Alvin/Hubert Rejk
Series: speedruning evolution [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2055267
Kudos: 5





	Self-similarity

**Author's Note:**

> i literally just opened wiki page about fractals to find something cool for a title, don't @ me  
> or @ me but like with asks about my way too big hcs, tho you can probably read a bit more about it on [my tumblr :]](https://thirstyforred.tumblr.com/tagged/alvin-x-hubert)
> 
> also I want to thank @octahedron for being the real mvp and going with me over the first draft v.v

It starts like this: he's laying on his back, looking up at the sky, seeing only vast, crispy blue, clouds racing after the passing storm, snow falling down. It lands on him, his face, eyelashes, on his armor. It's cold, and it should hurt so much, but weirdly it doesn't. Almost like there's nothing left to feel. He raises his hand to the sword buried deep in his chest, but no, it is very real. Despite all this blood around, the silver blade still catches enough sunlight to glint. It must be visible for miles in these forgotten mountains…

He tries to raise his head as well, to see the eyes of the swordmaster who bested him. To commit to memory their face - but fatigue overtakes him. Makes his eyelids heavy and mind clouded with the long-sought comfort. He must look so serene in those last moments...

That's how Alvin dreams for the first time about his death.

He's five at the time, and until the very end, he won't fully grasp what that means. What are the signs of inevitable.

* * *

When Alvin speaks Aen Ithlinnespeath he's like a canary raised by a noble-girl - he repeats words beautify like they're song lyrics, but without understanding. Maybe, Ithlinne was just as lost as he was, when she foretold the future for the first time.  _ Tedd Dreireadh, the White Frost, Hen Ichaer, the Destroyer _ … Words, just words, but each promising enough to launch armies across continents. Or worlds.

Maybe her lips trembled just as much when finally she realized that the vast white she sees isn't a sign of blindness, but of incredible foresight. That there's a certain kind of beauty and sweetness in bearing witness to frozen infinite. It's almost a shame that Ihlinne passed away before she could awake in this world, and keep waking up for the rest of her life - instead of just dreaming about the End. 

But Alvin isn't even ten years old, so not only he has no idea what all of this means, he just doesn't care. He plays with other children like there's no scar in his mind. In a game called "Kill the Elf", he's always the brave and noble Grandmaster. 

* * *

It's the catacombs, smelly and rotten, that Alvin both despites and uses to hide his most precious treasure. A weird mixture to begin with. He wanders deeper and deeper into the darkness, and while the air reeks with fear, he feels no such thing. And why would he? He's the most powerful being here. Righteous in how he grasps his sword and casts the light of a lantern into the darkness. There're things moving in the shadows, eyes reflecting the light, whispering incomprehensible gibberish. They are scary and hideous, and dangerous, but they're none of those things to Alvin - for him they're tools, ready to carry his every order. Soon...

One of the mutants falls in the middle of Alvin's path, too slow when it tries to run away from the light. It still has red gambeson on its back, the last remnants of the fact that at some point it was once a human. It's skittish, looking with the eyes filled with something almost sentient, drooling because of overgrown fangs and a dislocated jaw. When Alvin puts the lantern on the floor and grabs his sword with both hands, he doesn't think it's anything but what farmers do when one of the animals in their cattle is sick or weak. Or too slow. Pathetic.

And then Alvin wakes up. Consoled with the knowledge that he in fact isn't a farmer, breeder of mutants, but a twelve years old boy. And he has no such responsibilities as testing the reflexes of his flock. Not yet, at least.

* * *

It's yet another night and mountain slopes are clearly visible in the moonlight. Their jagged edges, untouched by humans in centuries, covered with snow and frost almost seem to shine in the darkness. They're simply reflecting the weak lights of stars on the vast sky, but Alvin knows that with time it will change. So he waits, patiently watching and bearing witness to whatever is about to transpire in these forgotten mountains.

And there's something - after the eternity of stars spiraling, dancing all over the firmament - he sees fires burning on the horizon. From the far east where it dawns there're bonfires scattered on mountain slopes, burning like they themselves are the daybreak. Soon they approach with the dawn, and Alvin expects to see figures, people, or other beings responsible for this fire signal, and there's no one else here. Mere meters from him snow on the ground starts to melt, all by itself, and a flame raises bigger and bigger, and so hot Alvin feels like it could consume him. Hungry and freshly awakened. But, and that's what makes him stop and look closer, there's something among the fire, something that feeds the fire, it moves lazily, like its getting the feel of its limbs for the first time, and steps from the fire. It's a salamander.

But teenage Alvin thinks it's all bullshit. There's no such thing as fire salamander. So instead, he gets a normal one as a pet.

* * *

Aldersberg feels familiar, which is eerie considering that he has never before visited it. There are banners of black, gold and red, and shields with the alder trees, and a plaza packed with people. Alvin stands above them all, on the raised platform, and wonders... Are they moving like ocean waves, stormy and cold, and merciless, or a flame, hot and violent, and unyielding? There's a sword in his right hand, steel one, of amazing craftsman work, and a burning torch in the other. He eyes it, the screaming mod, the stakes with three sacrifices tied to them, and he knows what's his purpose here.

_ "The Eternal Fire burns all alike..." _ He starts, as he sheathes his sword and approaches stakes. They scream, and common and Hen Linge, and even Latin, and he can't even pretend before himself that he doesn't understand their pleading. But it doesn't matter anyway.

_ "Be they paupers or princes!" _ He raises his voice as he sets the fire underneath the first stake. The mob behind, faithful people of Aldersberg, of Aedirn, drink his words as if it was a real sermon.

_ "Men or nonhumans! Weak or powerful!" _ Soon all three burns casting light, purifying all of the plaza, every person gathered here. Every believer willing themselves to go into the fire, to prove it's power.

_ "The Fire devours everything in its path!" _

Alvin is no longer a naive child - he knows it's only partially true. While the fire is capable of giving and sustaining life, he saw it in the dreams, the Eternal Fire will not conquer the White Frost. But it, the devotion it creates and feeds on, can be a useful tool in capable hands. Something that Alvin can exploit in the future.

* * *

He’s on yet another frozen plateau with bleak horizons and observes the time and space unraveling itself from a single point.

Or rather maybe it's curling on itself - impossible to say with how subjective the whole reality is.

For some time Alvin entertains the idea that what he's an unwilling witness of is the birth of the universe. But birth, no matter how long, is a single act of creation, while this thing…

It's ceaseless, neverending. So similar to elven descriptions of the structure of the universe - their sacred Spiral. But it isn't as perfect as Aen Seidhe would believe it to be - what Alvin has before himself is not stable, frozen in time. It's ever-changing. Not alive, but neither lifeless. Clever and almost aware, but also so clearly mindless.

The White Frost isn't a parasite living on its arms and consuming it, no. The White Frost is the Spiral. And Alvin sees it all and laughs. 

Humanity's fate isn't to become extinct - Ithlinne was so wrong. Their Destiny is to _ascend_.

* * *

This time Alvin is kneeling on the beach, sand, cold and rough underneath his knees, wet from the lazy falling down snow. The snowflakes are so big he can easily see their intricate builds, twisting fractals, remaining frozen even when they fall on his warm hands. He breathes a small white cloud of air from his lungs, but even that is not enough to melt them.

_ "To know how it all will end. it's almost bittersweet." _

There's someone chuckling softly from behind Alvin, sending shivers down his spine. A beast or a man with heavy hands on his shoulders, grounding in place, stopping any movement.

_ "Tell me, Alvin..." _

He moves slightly, leans over kneeling Alvin, and puffs a cloud of scalding hot air. There's something dangerous and tempting in his deep whisper.

_ "What do you see?" _ he asks.

And so Alvin looks. There's the ocean in front of them, dark and furious, and oozing cold. It should have frozen over a long time ago, eons, but out of spite and wrongness, it never did. There's a ship, moving on the unpredictable waves, avoiding icebergs, almost mocking the water itself, looking more like it's hovering over it, that sailing. And it shouldn't be so near the coast and beach, not with how giant it is - and yet it seems its course is right over where Alvin kneels. But it's slow, so very slow, and heavy, so he stays in place, pinned by the burning hands. Instead, he tries to memories all details of the vessel, its dark decks, and sails, and burned of letters of its name.

There's something about it. The lethargic crew on its decks, tattered sails, and ropes holding nothing... It looks almost  _ sick _ . Like it's a thing created of and for misery. 

The more Alvin takes in, the more he wishes for it to stop, to disappear. So he thinks about fire, and it comes to him so easy nowadays - sails start burning. As if by magic.

Soon all decks are engulfed in fire, masts are collapsing, and the crew, so far silent, screams in agony. Most of their words are unrecognizable, too much pain to make any sense, but some are begging for help, for gods, for Alvin personly. As if they knew him. But somehow Alvin knows, that even if he wanted, there's nothing to do for them, way to save people on the ship.

Later Alvin misses it - leaning back into the hands, hot breath on his neck. Feeling of satisfaction from watching such an act of destruction. He thinks about the fact that he never actually gave the man his answer. But once, in the future, when they will meet for the first time, Alvin will tell him about everything he saw. That it was the End.

* * *

Alvin stands in the middle of the room and once again there's this unnamed presence observing him. It's somewhere in the shadows, right one the edge of his vision, always hiding away before he can perceive it fully. Whenever it moves it leaves behind a feeling of danger and hunger, but also warmth... Alvin knows he should be scared, but doesn't feel fear. And it's not because whit thing in the darkness is beneath him - like the mutants he saw as a child - it's just as powerful as he is.

And, the weirdest of all of this, it seems familiar. As if Alvin should easily recognize it.

So he extinguishes all candles and torches, lets the darkness and shadows overtake him, and waits. In the silence, until it turns unbearable, so he starts with a whisper, soft murmur, his name, his dreams, all he ever saw. He hears the quiet scraping of claws on stones, movement of fur, the Beast slowly approaching, curious and careful, but he doesn't stop even for a moment. He introduces himself again, hoping that maybe they can repeat it back. He says sweet nothings, hoping this will tame the Beast.

There's a flash of teeth, catching the weak moonlight, and Alvin immediately recognizes that. Long and pointy incisors and fangs, perfect for puncturing flesh. He almost smiles at the sight.

He moves the blade of a knife over his right hand, lets the blood pool there, and raises it towards the fanged snout and glowing with knowledge and hunger eyes. Let's warm tongues lap at the wound and hear the deep growl of appreciation.

Something lingers when he finally wakes, like a wisp of someone else's magic, and his thoughts slipped into Alvin's mind. Repeats his name in a dark voice, one he now recognizes. Never before Alvin wanted so much to catch up with his future.

* * *

Alvin is now used to bleak horizons - frozen plateaus or mountain ranges, or endless beaches and stormy seas. But this surprises him. The sea is calm. Without a single wave, it looks frozen, either by cold or time, engulfed in fog. The beach is not empty. It's dying, filled with cries of beached whales, hundreds of them in their last, lazy passing minutes. Hundreds of them, their giant bodies buried in sand and snow, mercilessly dying in agony.

Alvin turns back, just to see how much more there is, but his eyes fall on silent and empty faced warriors behind. They keep up with every step he makes. Like hunting him ghosts, specters attached to his shadow. They have light armors and swords that look more like forgotten pieces of rust. There're medallions hanging from their neck and they stare with their inhuman yellow eyes. So easily recognizable eyes, even when overtaken by complete madness...

He asks what they want, who they are, they don't even whisper a word. They remain silent as if there was a spell cast on them, and all, one by one raise their hands, pointing to something on the horizon. Alvin looks back to the frozen sea and storm, just in time to see ripples on the surface. The waves created from the single point, fog spiraling around, and whole reality rearing itself at the seams. There are lightning bolts of both electricity and magic, and color and figures impossible to describe, something of both pure chaos and intricate design.

And then there's a ship, hovering right over the water surface, while everything else seems to turn back to normal. Giant vessel with black decks and black sails. Mutants move like a single organism, they go past Alvin, and now he understands that they're the crew of this ship.

When he wakes up, crawls out of Hubert’s grasp, he runs to find paper and something to write with, and only when he finally writes down the name of the ship, he can finally comprehend the meaning of it.  _ Midgaeth. Middle of the Gate. _

* * *

It's later, years if not decades later, that Alvin realizes. There's something about the nature of his visions, no longer as surprising as they were once. He still dreams of death and the end, but it's all he already knows.

He grasps Hubert's human face and whispers, as it's a secret he was holding onto all along, and not something he missed in his excitement and hope. He says:

_ "I have seen myself destroying the fruits of our work." _

Hubert is drenched in blood as if he was bathing in it mere minutes ago. Maybe he was. He smiles with drunk madness in his eyes and licks at Alvin's hands.

_"How did it feel?"_ he asks hungrily, instead of demanding answers for leading him on. He could be angry about it, he could be furious. But instead, Hubert knows, understands that the only clear thing about Alvin's dreams is snow and frost. Everything else is twisted at the edges, pulling and pushing in all directions at the same time. They're like the Spiral, confusing in its true form.

_"Powerful. Exhilarating..."_ he whispers truthfully, his lips by Hubert's ear, watching pupils of his own Beast dilating. _"There was this desire to do more, much more, to devour the sun itself. Make and consume until there's nothing left."_

Alvin doesn't even say his farewells, too focused on the destination, new times he wants to see and bend to his will. 

* * *

When thinking about his youth, early adulthood, and teens, Alvin's mind returns towards his parents. Not real ones, who birthed him, but the ones he met later, who offered him guidance. They were split between different timelines and worlds, and sometimes, rarely but still, Alvin worders... Maybe he could go back, see them still alive, for the last time, ask for aid or just word. It's dangerous to think about it, to miss anyone like that. He doesn't want to lose his purpose, to get lost somewhere on the Spiral.

Even if it would be so much easier.

The woman he never called his mother was, and now he sees it clearly, more perceptive that it's wise. She tried to give him happiness as if she knew that Destiny planned something different for him. But he never told her much of his worrier, too aware of her own sorrows, she desperately wanted to hide. Maybe she actually knew it all... Maybe looking at the twelve years old Alvin she saw something. From his future or her past...

But she was gentle and liked to smile, and ride horses, and she gifted him his first real sword - of course after she made sure he knew how to use the wooden one.

The man who became his father was at times like her mirror image - moody and painfully aware of how, even as the long-living creature, his life was slipping away. He was aware, painfully almost, that he will die soon. Not because of the sickness or catastrophe - Destiny played a cruel trick on him, leaving him lonely. Alvin wasn't there to witness it, but he heard his death was in the last fight - senseless, but at least honorable.

He thought Alvin about his own talents, he wasn't a great mage, but he had some experience and understanding of the worlds. He was an artist, twisting spirals of frost into tangible figures, intricate fractal spheres, palaces of crystal, both protective and aesthetically pleasuring. He was also a destroyer - he would shatter them mercilessly, unafraid of killing his work and starting anew.

Both in Vizima and Novigrad, Jacques often thinks about them, the imprint they left on him.

* * *

He doesn't dream of childhood often, these memories are forgotten or foggy at best. He knows he had Father, who died in the war, fighting against the Nilfgaard. That there was Mother, taken away around the same time, either by soldiers or the plague. And of course Caroline. She was kind and really cared about him, never complained when he woke up screaming, or asked if they could pull out another blanket on summer nights. Of course, even if she lived long enough to see him growing up, she would never understand. Maybe it's better that barghests got to her before she had a chance to see him unravel.

He would hate to see the disappointment on her face.

But that's the past and now there's a silver sword catching sunlight and glinting in the air. It also hurts, way more than Jacques would ever expect.


End file.
